Waterfire Saga, Book One: Deep Blue (A Waterfire Saga Novel) (4 page)

She glanced at Lucia again.
She’s always causing trouble.
Why does she even have to be here?
she wondered, but she knew the answer: Lucia was a member of the Volnero—a noble family as old, and nearly as powerful, as her own. The Volnero duchessas had the right to be at court and their daughters had the hereditary privilege of waiting upon the realm’s principessas.

Lucia, with her sapphire eyes, her silver scales, her night-blue hair swept up off her shoulders. You could bungle a hundred trills if you looked like that, and nobody would even notice, Serafina thought. Not that Lucia would bungle
anything
. Her voice was gorgeous. It was said the Volnero were descended from sirens.

Serafina didn’t know if that was true, but she knew that Portia, Lucia’s mother, had once enchanted Serafina’s own uncle Vallerio. Portia and Vallerio had wished to marry, but Artemesia—the reigning regina and Vallerio and Isabella’s mother—had forbidden the match. The Volnero had traitors in the branches of their family coral, and she hadn’t wanted her son to marry into a tainted line.

Angry, Vallerio had left Cerulea and spent several years in Tsarno, a fortress town in western Miromara. Portia married someone else—Sejanus Adaro, Lucia’s father. Some said she only married him because he looked like Vallerio with his handsome face, silver scales, and black hair. Sejanus died only a year after Lucia’s birth. Vallerio never married, choosing to devote himself to the welfare of the realm instead.

Portia has taught Lucia her secrets, Serafina thought enviously. She sighed, thinking how
her
mother taught her the correct form of address for Atlantica’s foreign secretary, or that Parliament must be convened only during a spring tide, never a neap tide. She wished that once, just
once
, her mother would teach her something merly—like which anemones to kiss to get those pouty, tentacle-stung lips, or how to make her tail fin sparkle.

Stop it, Serafina,
she told herself.
Don’t let Lucia get to you. Neela will know if Mahdi went to the Lagoon or not. Just practice your songspell.
She comforted herself with the knowledge that her best friend would be here soon. Just seeing her face would make this whole ordeal easier.

Serafina straightened her back, squared her shoulders, and tried, yet again, to practice her songspell.

“Your Grace, may I compliment you on your dress?” a voice drawled from behind her. “I hope you’re wearing it tonight.”

Serafina glanced in the mica. It was Lucia. She was smiling. Like a barracuda.

“No, I’m not, but thank you,” she said warily. It wasn’t like Lucia to be forthcoming with the compliments.

“What a pity. You should. It’s so simple and fresh. Totally genius. Contrast is
absolutely
the way to go in a situation like this,” Lucia said.

“Contrast?” Serafina said, puzzled. She turned to Lucia.

“Your look. It’s a fabulous contrast.”

Serafina looked down at her dress. It was a plain, light-blue sea-silk gown. Nothing special. She’d changed into it hastily, right after she’d swum into the antechamber.

“My look is all one color—blue. And we’re in the
sea
, Lucia. So, it really doesn’t contrast with anything.”

“Ha! That is so funny, Your Grace! Good for you for joking about it. I’m glad it doesn’t bother you. Don’t let it. Merboys will be merboys and, anyway, I’m sure he’s given her up by
now
.”

The whole room had gone quiet. Everyone had stopped what she was doing to listen. Blood sport was the court’s favorite game.

“Lucia, who’s
he
? Who’s
her
? What are you talking about?” Serafina asked, confused.

Lucia’s eyes widened. She pressed a hand to her chest. “You don’t
know
? I am
such
an idiot. I thought you knew. I mean,
everyone
knows. I—I’m sorry. It’s nothing. I made a mistake.” She started to swim off.

Lucia
never
admitted to making a mistake. Serafina saw a chance to best her, to pay her back for the mean things she’d said. And though a voice inside her told her not to, she took that chance.

“What mistake, Lucia?” she asked.

Lucia stopped. “Really, Your Grace,” she said, looking deeply embarrassed. “I wouldn’t like to say.”

“No, tell me.”

“If you insist,” Lucia replied.

“I do.”

As soon as the words left her lips, Serafina realized
she
was the one who’d made the mistake. Lucia turned around. Her barracuda smile was back. She’d only been feigning embarrassment.

“I was talking about the crown prince and his merlfriend,” she said. “Well, his
latest
one.”

“His…his
merlfriend
?” Serafina said. She could barely breathe.

“That’s
enough
, Lucia! You’re going too far!” Bianca hissed.

“But, Bianca, would you have me defy our principessa? She wishes me to speak,” Lucia said. She fixed her glittering eyes on Serafina. “I’m
so
sorry to be the one to tell you. Especially on the day of your Dokimí. I was certain you knew, otherwise I would never have mentioned it. I only meant to compliment you by telling you that your look was a contrast to hers. All
she
has going for her is blond hair, turquoise scales, and more curves than a whirlpool.”

Lucia, triumphant, dipped her head. Serafina felt humiliated, but was determined not to show it. This was her own fault. She’d stupidly fallen right into Lucia’s trap and now she had to swim out.

“Lucia, thank you
so
much for telling me,” she said, smiling. “It’s
such
a relief to know. I hope she’s taught him a few things.”

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace?”

“Look, we all know it—it’s no secret—the last time the crown prince visited, he was a bit of a goby and pretty hopeless with merls,” Serafina said.

“You’re not upset?”

“Not at all! Why would I be? I just hope she’s done a good job with him. Taught him a few dance strokes or how to send a proper love conch.
Someone
has to. Merboys are like hippokamps, don’t you think? No fun until they’re broken in. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really do need to practice.”

Lucia, thwarted, turned on her tail and swam away, and Serafina, a fake smile still on her face, resumed her songspell. The performance cost her dearly, but no one would have known. Used to the ways of her court, to its sharp teeth and claws, she was an expert at hiding her feelings.

Sylvestre, however, was not.

Crimson with anger, the octopus swam after Lucia. When he got close to her, he siphoned in as much water as he could hold, then shot a fat jet of it at her, hitting her squarely in the back of her head. Her updo collapsed.

Lucia stopped dead. Her hands went to her head. “My hair!” she screeched, whirling around.

“Sylvestre!” Serafina exclaimed, horrified. “Apologize!”

Sylvestre affected a contrite expression, then squirted Lucia again—in the face.

“You little sucker! I’ll
gut
you!” she sputtered. “Avarus! After him!”

Lucia’s pet scorpion fish zipped after the octopus. Sylvestre darted under the table where Serafina’s breakfast tray was resting. Avarus followed him. The table went over; the tray went flying. Sylvestre grabbed a water apple and fired it at Avarus. Avarus ducked it and charged. He swam up to Sylvestre and stung him. Sylvestre howled, and a few seconds later, Serafina’s antechamber was engulfed by a roiling cloud of black ink.

Serafina could see nothing, but she could hear her ladies coughing and shrieking. They were crashing into tables, chairs, and one another. When the cloud finally cleared, she saw Lucia and Bianca wiping ink off their faces. Giovanna was shaking it out of her hair. Tavia was threatening to hang Sylvestre up by his tentacles.

And then another voice, majestic and fearsome, was heard above the fray: “In olden days, royals had their unruly nobles beheaded. What a pity that custom fell out of use.”

T
HALASSA,
the canta
magus, was not amused.

She floated in the doorway of the antechamber, arms crossed over her considerable bosom, tentacles twining beneath her. Her hair, the gray of a hurricane sky, was styled in an elegant twist. A cluster of red anemones bloomed like roses at the nape of her neck. She wore a gown of crimson, and a long cape of black mussel shells. At a snap of her fingers, two cuttlefish removed it.

The entire chamber had gone quiet. Thalassa, Miromara’s keeper of magic, was the most powerful songcaster in the realm. No one misbehaved in her presence—
ever
. Even Isabella sat up straighter when Thalassa entered the room.

“Causing trouble again, Lucia?” she finally said. “Nothing surprising from a Volnero. Do you remember what bad behavior got your ancestor Kalumnus? No? Let me remind you. It got him his head in a basket. Likewise your great-aunt Livilla. I would watch myself if I were you.”

Lucia’s eyes flashed menacingly at the unwelcome reminder of her ancestors’ dark deeds. Kalumnus had tried to assassinate Merrow and rule in her stead. He’d been captured and beheaded, and his family banished. Two thousand years later, Livilla Volnero tried to raise an army against the Merrovingia. She, too, had been executed. Though these events had happened centuries ago, suspicion still shrouded the Volnero like sea mist.

“And
you
, Bianca,” Thalassa continued. “A true di Remora. Always following the big fish. You might want to reassess your loyalties. The Merrovingia
are
Miromara and always will be. Alítheia ensures that.” She waved a heavily jeweled hand. “Out. Now,” she ordered. “All of you except the principessa.”

Serafina knew that Thalassa had come to drill her on her songspell. She was her teacher.

“Your Dokimí’s only a few hours away. As of yesterday, that trill in the fifth measure wasn’t where it should be. It should be quick and bright, like dolphins jumping, not lumbering like a whale shark. We have work to do,” Thalassa said.

“Yes, Magistra,” Serafina said.

“From the beginning, please.”

Serafina started to sing…and immediately stumbled.

“Again,” the canta magus demanded. “No mistakes this time. The songspell is supposed to demonstrate excellence, and you are not even showing me competence!”

Serafina started over. This time, she got well into the songspell—and past the difficult trill—without a mistake. Her eyes darted from the wall ahead of her, where she’d focused her gaze, to Thalassa.

“Good, good, but stop biting off your words,” Thalassa chided. “Legato, legato, legato!”

Serafina nodded to show she understood and tried to soften her words, gliding smoothly from phrase to phrase. She was doing more than merely singing now; she was songcasting.

Merrow’s songspell, if sung correctly, told listeners of the origins of the merfolk. Like all principessas before her, Serafina had to cast the original songspell, then compose several movements of her own that illustrated the progression of the merfolk after Merrow’s rule. She had to sing of her place in that progression, and her betrothed’s, and she had to use color, light, and movement to do it. The greater her mastery of magic, the more dazzling her songspell.

She was just conjuring a likeness of Merrow when Thalassa started waving her hands.

“No, no, no!
Stop!
” she shouted.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Serafina asked.

“The images, they’re far too pale. They have no life!”

“I—I don’t understand, Magistra. I hit all the notes. I had that phrase totally under control.”

“That’s the problem, Serafina—too much control! That’s
always
your problem. I want emotion and passion. I want the tempest, not the calm. Again!”

Serafina took a deep breath, then picked up where Thalassa had stopped her. As she sang, the canta magus whirled around her, pushing her, challenging her, never letting up. As Serafina began a very tricky section of the songspell, a tribute to her future husband, Thalassa swam closer, propelled by her strong tentacles.

“Expression, Serafina, more expression!” she demanded.

Serafina had conjured a water vortex as part of an effect. She added two more.

“Good, good! Now use the magic to make me
feel
something! Amaze me!”

Raising the vortices with her voice, Serafina made them taller and spun them faster. She forgot she was inside the palace, forgot to keep the magic small. Her voice grew louder, stronger. She swept a graceful hand out in front of her, curving the vortices. She bent them once, twice, three times, folding the water in on itself, forcing it to refract light.

“Excellent!” Thalassa shouted.

Sera’s voice was soaring. It swooped over arpeggios, ranged up and down octaves effortlessly. She bent the water again and again, and a dozen more times until it cracked and broke into shards and light shot from it in so many directions, it looked like a mountain of diamonds glittering in the chamber. She was now coming to the part where she had to conjure an image of the crown prince.

She tried to make the most beautiful image she could imagine, but as soon as she saw Mahdi’s face shimmering before her, her voice broke. All she could think about was Lucia telling her that he had a merlfriend. What if she was right?

All at once, her emotion boiled over. She lost control of her songspell. The vortices spun apart violently and splashed to the floor, knocking over a table, smashing a chair, and cracking two windows.

“I can’t do it!” she shouted angrily, slapping the water with her tail. “It’s an
impossible
songspell!” She turned to Thalassa, her composure entirely gone. “Tell my mother the Dokimí’s off. Tell her I’m not good enough! Not good enough for her! Not good enough to cast this rotten songspell! And not good enough for the crown prince!”